


In Cold Blood

by Blithe_Novelties



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Horror, Murder, Mystery, Other, Paranormal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-23 17:38:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blithe_Novelties/pseuds/Blithe_Novelties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been years since Arthur Kirkland's been home. Little does he know that Summit Falls,the town of his youth, is now hosting a series of ongoing murders. As long as the killer remains free, no one is safe. Problem is, he never leaves any traces. AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Before I begin, I'd like to state that for those who are confused, "Scott" is the human name I call Scotland. This particular story is an alternate-universe, in which the human names are used. As the title suggests, murder will be frequent. Personally, I blame Sherlock Holmes and Homestuck for this madness.
> 
> First chapter written December 16, 2012.
> 
> Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya, while the inspirations for this story belong to their rightful owners.

    **Chapter 1**

  The man looked at his fallen comrade.  The other's face was one frozen in terror, mouth agape; eyes still locked directly on him, even after his last breath had been stolen away. If he hadn't known better, the man would assume that his companion was merely playing a trick on him, to get back at him for all the pranks _he_ had pulled in the past. But he, however, did know better, and thus came to the understanding that the man on the floor in front of him was not playing opossum and that he was, for lack of a better saying, dead as a doornail. Stepping over the body, he couldn't help but chuckle to himself. While it wasn't a joke, the situation was still humorous to him. 

   _Poor devil didn't even see it coming._

  Then again, they never did.

                                         XxX

  Arthur Kirkland stepped off of the bus, nearly falling on his face, loaded down by two bulging duffle bags, which held the only possessions he could claim as his own at the time being. Cursing at the inanimate objects, as if they were secretly planning to make a fool out of him on his first day back at his old town in years, the Brit ungracefully regained his footing.

  "Blast all," he muttered, shifting the slipping straps onto his shoulder once more. "The last thing I need is to bloody break-" Freezing midsentence, his mouth set in a firm line as he examined his surroundings. Everything seemed so... _wrong._ There was no hustle and bustle about the streets, no cheerful ramblings in the many languages of the people that made up the diverse town. If there were cars on the street, they were few and far in-between.  All of the buildings had a vacant air about them, as if they hadn't been touched in years. It was like walking into a ghost town out of those old Western movies his old friend Alfred adored so much, only it was ten times more eerie actually experiencing it than seeing it on his friend's television screen.

  "Hello?" he called out, shaking his forever messy hair out of his emerald eyes. "Hello? Is there anybody here? Hello?"  Was it even possible for a whole town to simply _disappear?_   The blonde walked over to the nearest building, El Café de Carriedos. He wondered if Antonio had ever taken over or if someone else had been left to care for the quaint Spanish café. He reached for the door handle to open it, only to discover that it was locked.  Hesitating slightly, he raised one of his fists and knocked on the door thrice. No response greeted him.

  Scowling, he adjusted his bags and continued his walk through the empty town, _This seems like the kind of joke Alfred would_   Realization dawned on him, and it made him furious.  Of _course,_ the whole ghost town set up was a "Welcome Home" prank from Alfred. It was a wonder the thought didn't come to him sooner-it was the exact sort of thing the boisterous American would do.

  He ceased his hike, cupping his hands around his mouth to project the sound of his voice further. "All right you lot, come out from wherever you're hiding." Nothing, not even the faintest whisper reached his ears. "Oh, come off it, I know Alfred set you up to this." Once more, he paused, anxiously awaiting any tell tale sign of life. Once more, silence was only response he received.

  "Well this certainly is odd," he muttered, lowering his hands. "Perhaps they're waiting for the right moment? In any case, I should surely try again. Hello? Is there _anyone_ listening?" his stomach dropped, leaving the Brit with feelings of nausea and despair.  It shouldn't have been this quietit wasn't natural; he remembered Summit Falls as a place bursting to the seams with energy. This couldn't be the lively place of his youth.

  Arthur laughed nervously, fidgeting with his shirt collar. "All right, y-you've had your little jokeso why don't you all come out from hiding and we can have a nice chat, hm? Have some tea, have a pleasant talk about the "good old days"doesn't that sound lovely, chaps?" 

  He began slowly backing up, ready to flee at a moment's notice; his nerves on haywire. Whatever had happened to the place he'd once called home had no positive effects whatsoever, and, if he just so happened to spot a bus or a taxi or any form of transportation for that matter, he'd not have a moment's indecision to flag the vehicle down until the driver would let him board. The faster he got away from this ghost town, the better.  He'd even live in Scott's basement if it meant he'd never have to come around here again; slowly dying from secondhand smoke seemed a _much_ better option than the one he was currently facing. 

  A human silhouette darted out of the corner of his eye. Whoever it was surely meant him harm, he decided; panicking, Arthur whirled around, his bags swinging madly about the air, and ran. One of his feet caught under the other in his frenzied attempt at escape; he went airborne for a few seconds, before crashing, prostrate, onto the asphalt, knocking the last bit of air out of his lungs. Fervently, the blonde tried to push himself up, but to no avail, as his bags, tangled about his body, trapped him, face down on the sidewalk. 

  He heard footsteps, presumably those of the stranger, as no one else was to be seen milling about, drawing nearer.   _I'm going to die. I'm going to bloody die._ He squeezed his eyes shut; lips moving silently, Arthur prayed, to whatever being that ruled above, that if these were to be his last moments, his end be swift and painless.  

  Arthur sensed the person kneel down beside him; with baited breath he waited for whichever weapon the other had to make contact with his body. After a few seconds of nothing piercing his skin or his skull, he carefully began prying his eyes open. "Wh-what?"

  "Arthur Kirkland," the strange man's voice tickled his ear; the blonde could feel his warm breath on his cheek. "I've been waiting for you."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As for Arthur's middle name being Ignatius…one of places where fans believe England has gotten his name from is the author of the Sherlock Holmes series, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, whose middle name was just that-Ignatius. Funnily enough, "Iggy," the nickname England has been given because of his name in Japanese is Igirisu, is also a nickname for the name Ignatius. Thus, my headcanon for Arthur Kirkland's middle name was born.
> 
> Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya, while the inspirations for this story belong to their rightful owners.

**Chapter 2**

     Arthur was preparing to scream his lungs out, when something from years back, buried under more recent thoughts and memories, returned to him, bringing along with it long forgotten moments of the past; he recognized the speaker, as there was no denying who owned that voice. _"You."_   Terror long forgotten, replaced by the anger that overtook him as suddenly as a tsunami would form. "Youyou _idiot!_ What the hell was that for?"

    The man laughed, standing, pulling Arthur up with him. For the third time that day, the Brit lost his footing; compared to his companion, he weighed nothing more than a leaf and the suddenness at which he was yanked off of the ground was enough to send him flying once more. "Whoops," the other tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle an onslaught of more laughter, as he steadied the blonde. 

    This, if anything, only enraged Arthur more. _"Whoops?_ You nearly give me a heart attack and all you can manage to say is _"whoops"?_   Bloody wanker! I didn't move back just so you could scare the dickens out of me!" He continued rambling angrily, with each word getter more worked up than before. "You haven't changed the slightest, have you? You should have grown up, if only a little, by now Alfred!"

    The American flashed a lopsided grin, "I see you haven't changed either, Artie. Still haven't gotten rid of those caterpillars, eh?" He jammed his hands into his jeans pockets, knowing full well his was antagonizing his childhood friend.

    "My eyebrows are perfectly fine the way they are, thank you very much! In case you've forgotten, I do trim them-every night and every morning. I've told you this, I know, several thousands of times before! Really, are you so thick as to not remember anything that has nothing whatsoever to do with you? I swear" he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest with difficulty, as once more the duffle bags limited his movement; his green eyes locked Alfred F. Jones in a death stare.

    "Nope, still the same ole Artie." Alfred's grin spread; his sky blue eyes behind his glasses, twinkling with the constant mirth identified as possessed by only him, just as much as-or quite possibly more-than the cowlick located at the back of his head was known as belonging to the genial American.

    "Don't call me that!" Arthur snapped. "My name is _Arthur_ not _Artie."_   His lip twisted in disgust; if there was one thing he absolutely could _not_ stand it was nicknames, especially if it was his own name being shortened. Why was it that nearly everyone felt the need to reduce words? To him, it showed nothing more than poor English.

    "Wellcan I call you Iggy? Y'know shortened for Ignatiusyour middle name? 'Cause I think Iggy sounds awesome, not nearly as awesome as my name but" he shrugged. "Y'can't have everything."

    "I know what my middle name is, Alfred. And absolutely notthat's far worse than the other one!" Looking back now, Arthur had no clue as to what possessed him to become friends with the man standing before him, nor did he understand why he'd stayed friends with him; the two really had nothing in common and Alfred's childish antics _always_ managed to get on his nerves.

    "Artie it is then!" his companion chirped.

    Arthur groaned, "Really, Alfred. Will you ever grow up?"

   "Hmmm" the American stroked his chin, looking as if he were contemplating the mysteries of the universe for a moment or two, before optimistically replying. "Nope!"

   _Some people change for the better, others for the worseand then you have Alfred, who'll never change at all, despite how much you want him to_

 

                                       XxX

     "And we're home!"  Alfred announced, throwing the door to his house open. He'd been considerate enough to offer that Arthur should stay at his place, with his quarters being the guest room, until he could get a job and afford his own. The whole way there, the younger man insisted on carrying both of the Brit's bags, more often than not, to show off his incredible strength, and chattered on about superheroes and other ridiculous subjects. Arthur only half listened, having heard these exact ramblings years before, so it came a shock to him, when he realized Alfred's blue eyes were locked intently on his face, as if waiting for him to reply to a question.

   "I beg your pardon?" There was something about the other's gaze that gave Arthur the creeps. Alfred's eyes had a cold, calculating look about them,  making it seem as if it were not the American he knew so well, but an imposter, a doppelganger, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. He shuddered at the very idea. Perhaps going someplace alone with Alfredor whoever _this_ person happened to be wasn't the wisest idea he'd had.

    "Eh?" a confused expression washed over Alfred's face; he looked dazed for a second or two before shaking his head, clearing away any thoughts floating about his brain. _"Oh,"_   he chuckled, his eyes once more his own, "I said, what made you come back home? Y'never really liked this placealways complained everyone was too loud. Once you left, we figured you were gone for good. I mean, Scott left too-long before you did-but we never really expected _him_ to want to leave. He never had any problems with this placeuntil he and Francis got into a fight. Remember that? How Frenchie said he was getting sick of hanging out with a punk like him and your bro beat him up? And how Francis started hanging out with Gil and Antonio? Then, when they all graduated, Scott just up and left? All of us woulda expected him to come back before you would."

   "Yesright" The change in Alfred had happened so quickly, it simply could've have been Arthur's imagination. It seemed probable, as he was still unnerved about earlier; returning to find Summit Falls practically vacant and becoming even more shaken up by his friend's stunt did little to ease the Brit's nerves. "Well" he cleared his throat. "I returned simply becauseI was filled with nostalgia when I thought of this town. I never realized how much Summit Falls truly meant to me, until years after I left." Which was, in reality, only partly true, as he'd recently lost not only his job, but had been kicked out of his home as well. Things had looked dim, so he'd taken what little money he had, boarded the next bus, and went to the only place he could think of, that being his old hometown.  

   "Aww, Artie! Is that your way of saying you missed me? I missed you too!" the other blonde wrapped Arthur in a bone crushing bear hug. "Glad you came back, dude!"

   "Get off of me!" he squirmed, fruitlessly trying to push his friend away from him. The younger male guffawed before releasing him from his iron embrace. Arthur gasped, like a fish out of its element, in attempt to bring air back into his lungs. No doubt his ribs were already bruising, thanks to Alfred. "Git" Arthur hissed, glaring at him. "What the hell possessed you to do that?"

   "Welcome back to Summit Falls, Artie!" the American exclaimed, finally closing the door (or rather, kicking it closed.) "It's great to have you back!"

   "Yes, I've gotten that the first three hundred times you've told me," Arthur repeated drily, rolling his eyes. "However, that still does not answer-"

   Completely ignoring him, Alfred set the luggage down on the floor, "Guest room's where it's always been-second door to your right. I'm going to make hamburgers for lunchhope you don't mind?" Without waiting for Arthur to utter his absolute disgust at the mention of burgers, he started for the kitchen, humming under his breath.

   _Idiotstill as childish as ever, if not more_ Though, Arthur couldn't say that the fact he'd at least found one unchanged element in this now unfamiliar place wasn't comforting. "Alfred?" he called out, suddenly remembering the question on his mind from earlier. "What's happened to Summit Falls? There's no one out on the streets and nearly every building looks empty. Did anything happen while I was gone?"

  The American froze in his tracks, twisting his neck around so he could see the other as he spoke. "Oh? You mean you haven't heard?" There was confusion, as well as a slight edge to his voice; once again, it was as if it wasn't Alfred who was doing the speaking.

  The hair on the back of Arthur's own neck stood up; he wondered if he should be frightened or if it were just his nerves acting up again. "No" he answered. "I haven't heard a thing about this place since I left four years ago. Should I have heard something?"

  Alfred shook his head, "Naw, guess you wouldn't haveit's not like they can catch 'im anywaythey probably don't want to spread word outside of town, yet, 'cause they're scared he'll get them too." 

  Icy fear struck the British man's heart, _"Who,_ Alfred?" His instincts were telling him to make a run for it, but terror already had its dark tendrils wrapped around him, with a grip so tight he could barely breathe, much less escape.

  "The killer," the younger blonde replied nonchalantly, voice devoid of any emotion as he walked out of the room, leaving Arthur still frozen in place.

   _Killer? What has happened to this place?_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As for the name the residents of Summit Falls has given the killer, "The Moriarty Murderer", is named, in fact, after a character in the Sherlock Holmes series, otherwise known as Holmes's archrival, if he ever had one, Doctor James Moriarty.
> 
> Moriarty was the head, a ringleader of an organization of criminals. While Holmes used his incredible intelligence for good, Moriarty used it to help the dregs of society commit crimes in ways so they would not get caught, it wasn't for Holmes. In other words, the murderers, the robbers, nearly all of the criminals, went to Moriarty, and paid him for his help. Because the murderer in this fanfiction leaves not a trace at the murder scenes, like how Doctor Moriarty sold his secrets of not leaving a trace to his clients, and how the killer is just as wily as the doctor, I thought the very best alias I could give would be, in fact, "The Moriarty Murderer."
> 
> Translation: 1.)"¡Señorita…señorita Elizaveta! Es horrible! Mi amigo…":"Miss…Miss Elizaveta! It's horrible! My friend…"
> 
> 2.) "…ay, es muy, muy terrible!":"…oh, it's very, very terrible!"
> 
> Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya, while the inspirations for this story belong to their rightful owners.

  **Chapter 3**

      He stood there, mind numb, unable to recollect his thoughts. One word stayed firm, rooting itself in his brain, refusing to disappear like his other thoughts did; nothing Arthur did freed himself from its hold. _Killerkillerkillerkiller_ In its own way, it was like a macabre drum, the pounding rhythm blocking all other sounds from his ears, making his head throb.

     It reminded the Brit of the time when he was fifteen and found an ancient book in the wooded area in the southern part of town. It was written in what he supposed was Latinthough, there was no possible way for him to have tested that theory, save showing it to someone who might've known, such as the Vargas brothers' grandfather, whom was known as the local expert on Roman history. However, if he were to show someone the tome, word would get out, leaving him with no time to go through it himself; upon finding it, he'd dashed off, not stopping for breath until he'd reached the safety of his room. 

    Arthur had flipped to a random page, and read a passage out loud. At the time, he'd felt superior, but afterwards, terrors began to haunt him during the darkest hours of the night; the blonde decided he was better off without the book and had, of course, sneaked back into forest where he'd found it and discarded it. The nightmares had ceased, but only too well could the Brit remember them, could feel the hellfire burning his skin, hear the shrieking laughter of the demons as the flames swallowed him whole, feel the sensation of his senses being ripped away. Nothing, not even leaving his radio on could drown them out; no matter how hard he tried, nothing had stopped the visions from coming. It was exactly how he was in this momentnot one thing Arthur tried to think of, tried to focus on, took away that word or the sickening feeling it'd brought along.

    _Get a hold of yourself! The worst possible thing you could ever do is to go about with your head up your arse!_   Breaking the stupor in which he was held, at least to some extent, Arthur grabbed his bags, and went to drop them off at what was now to be his room. 

   Pushing open the door, he was shocked to discover that not a thing had been touched since his last stay there, nearly four and a half years ago; if he hadn't known better, he would say, cliché as it was, that it was as if he were transported to another time, back when Alfred would drag him to the Jones's residence every Friday, after school, practically forcing him to sleep over. 

   Arthur set his luggage down by the door, green eyes studying his surroundings as he relived each of the moments connected with this place; he wandered about, letting his lean fingers trail across the surfaces of the relics of his teenage days, hovering over each one for a few seconds, before moving on, drinking in the memories of the next object he encountered.

   There was the old quilt, with its fraying edges, folded neatly at the foot of the carefully made bed, passed down through Alfred's family through the generations, with its colors and patterns dulled, faded even more than he remembered due to four additional years of basking in the warm rays of the golden sun. The old digital alarm clock, he noted, was still stuck on thirty five minutes after midnight, never fixed since that September, five years ago, when Alfred had broken it during a moment of mass hysteria, after the American had raced blindly into the room, knocking the bedside table over, begging his friend to tell whatever monsters from the horror movie he'd watched earlier, to leave him alone.

   The ivory colored porcelain desk lamp, yellowed from time, still had never gotten a replacement shade after the time the original had been lost, long before he and Alfred had become friends. The beige curtains, as they'd always been during his youth, pulled back, allowing soft sunlight to fill the room, allowing floating dust particles to be visible in the glow.  Walls painted so pale a yellow, at first glance, they looked white.  The mahogany furniture, with scratches permanently etched onto their dark surfaces everything was as he'd last left it. Arthur would have been convinced that the last four years of his life had been a dream, a mere figment of his imaginative mind, if it weren't for the fact a layer of dust covered nearly every object his fingers strayed across.

   _I'll have to tidy things up a bit. How could I have even managed an hour in this room, when it has nearly always been in a state of disrepair is beyond memight be rather difficult, though, considering how many memories this room holds_

  "Yo, Artie. Burgers're donehey, you okay, man?" Alfred's voice pulled the Brit back to reality; all of his reminisces disappearing no sooner than the words had tumbled off of the younger blonde's lips.

  "Yes, yes, I'm fine. I'm justreliving memories is all," sighing, Arthur turned to face his friend, whom was leaning up against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest; once more the American was studying him, with eyes that had that same steely look from earlier. He saw the other's mouth move, but heard not one sound; he was too focused on his friend's sky blue orbs, trying to determine whether or not his own eyes were playing tricks on them. "I'm sorry? I didn't hear that last bit"

 Azure eyes flickered, filling with concern; once again, the change was so drastic, Arthur was once more positive that he was seeing things. "I asked if you were okayyou seem kinda out of it. Sure you're all right?" 

  "Of course I'm fine, you twat!" He was getting rather irritated of having been asked that question; the words slipped off his tongue before he could stop them, and, once they were out there, Alfred's eyes gleamed strangely once more. "O-ohI mean yes, I'mI'm finejust tired is all" Arthur stammered, nervously rubbing at the back of his neck; there was a strange aura around his friend, though he sensed it more than saw it, and it felt vaguely like how he had imagined the dark aura that nearly everyone had always said that Ivan Braginski had around him would feel, leaving him terrified, with little to nothing he could do to fix it.

  Confusion passed over the features of the American, the look of his face clearly stating that he didn't believe his friend, though he didn't push the issue. Deciding it'd be best to change the subject, he turned to leave, "C'mon. Food's getting cold." Alfred started off for the dining room; a befuddled Arthur, trailing after him, jogging to keep up with his long strides.

                                       XxX

     After a rather unsatisfying meal (not to mention, having to had clean up the other's mess), Arthur joined his host in the living room, more than willing to have a chat with him, to perhaps better understand the terror that had begun to plague Summit Falls in his absence.  The television, left on the local news station, blaring on the highest level of volume was drowned out by Alfred's incessant prattling. The Englishman had learnt, using the term loosely, as more likely than not, all the words that had come out of the American's mouth was nothing more than mere idle gossip, nearly everything that had happened to everyone in the small town during the past four years, save about the murderer and all of his victims.  

  Every time he would begin to mention this, however, Alfred would immediately switch to another conversational topic. Each time, Arthur had to convince himself that there was absolutely nothing to be suspicious about, that there was no way his always cheery, albeit bothersome, childhood friend was the killer.

  "and that's why you aren't sleeping in my parents' old room," the bespectacled blonde finished, flashing a grin. "'Cause Tony likes his space and he wanted the largest bed in the house."

  "Tony? Oh, come off it, Alfred. Aren't you a little old to believe in aliensor have imaginary friends for that matter?" the elder scoffed, brushing away a strand of unkempt hair from his eyes. "If you didn't want me to have that particular room in the first place,  all you needed to do was tell me, you git."

  He stuck his tongue out, "Tony is real, dude. So are his family and friends. Unlike those lame ass fairies and unicorns you probably still talk about."

   _"Excuse_ me? Fairies, as well as unicorns, exist, unlike those blasted aliens you can never seem to stop blabbering on about, like a fool," Arthur shot back venomously. This conversation, if one could ever really call it that, he noted, was exactly how things were, back before he'd decided he'd had enough of Summit Falls, before he graduated and moved off, ready to start his adult life in a world far away from the place he'd once called home.  

  The American looked as if he were about to retort when his eyes happened to stray towards the television screen.  Arthur followed his gaze, surprised to see that the celery colored orbs of Elizaveta Héderváry were staring back into his own green irises. With chestnut hair pulled back into a bun, donning a black business suit, she looked nothing like the tomboy Elizaveta from his youth. At the moment, he couldn't determine whether or not it was her, as someone else was nearing the end of their own report; the woman currently onscreen had yet to have a chance to speak.  "Is that"

  "Elizaveta? Yeah, that's her all right. Looks different, huh?  'Least onscreen, thoughoff she's still as tough as she's always been. Remember the time Gilbert was picking on Vash Zwingli's step sister? And how Liz got so pissed, the next day she brought in a frying pan and used it to beat the shit out of Gil?" Alfred chuckled, recalling the memory. "See that ring on her finger?  She's getting married to him soonGil, I mean."

  "Gilbertas in, Gilbert Beillschmidt? I thought she and Roderich were together" He knitted his thick eyebrows together in confusion; he hadn't realized exactly how much had changed since he'd left those four years ago

  "Yeah, well, she and Roddy broke up about a week after you left. Somethin' about how he cared more about his piano than anything else in the world, even her I don't think I'd ever seen Edelstein  get so angry before. He told her that if she couldn't stand to be with a "musical genius", then she oughta leave him. And she did. About two months later, she and Gil were together.  Shocked everyone'cause we all thought she couldn't stand himy'know, he still wears those freakish red contacts. And dyes his hair that weird ass white color or whatever every couple of months. And he still thinks he's the most awesome person here."

  Before Arthur had time to comprehend everything he had just learnt, Elizaveta began to speak, her voice magnified by the speakers.

  "Thank you for that wonderful report, Tino."  Clearing her throat, she began her own, "As we here, at Summit Falls, are all aware, a killer has been on the loose, since early July of this year. Each murder is spontaneous, people of all ages and races having been found, killed, in their homes or workplaces, having little, if any relation to another one of the victims. Another death has be added to the death toll, as Mister Toris Lorinaitis, was found dead early this morning. Once more, "The Moriarty Murderer" has left no traces leading to his identity, at or nearby the crime scene. I think I speak for all of us when I say-" Without any warning beforehand, the door to the studio flew open;  in a synchronized moment, all cameras trained on the doorway where stood a disheveled Antonio Fernandez Carriedo; panic clearly showing on his tanned features.

  "¡Señoritaseñorita Elizaveta! Es horrible! Mi amigo" Panting, the Spaniard clutched at his chest, trying to catch his breath. "Gilberthe isay, es muy, muy terrible!"

   An unnerved look passed over the woman's face, as she looked from Antonio, back to the cameramen. "Can wecan we take a short break?" Upon receiving approval, she flashed a shaky smile, obviously, she was trying desperately to push away her worries that the worst had come. "We'll be back after these messages." 

  The two blondes sat in silence, as a slew of commercials took place of the newscast on the screen. For nearly fifteen minutes, they watched advertisements for local restaurants and insurance, not to mention numerous infomercials for useless (and, to put it bluntly, stupid) inventions, claiming to help make everyday life "easier", until the broadcast once more came onscreen. Elizaveta, hands folded neatly, resting on the notes for her report was again the main focus of the cameras. 

  With eyes ringed in red, brunette hair tousled and falling out of the tight bun that had once confined it, and business suit wrinkled, she looked to be the spokesperson for the unkempt people of the world. Her mouth however, was set in a firm line, desperately attempting to keep a straight face, not to go into hysterics in front of the viewers tuned in to the station.

  "Ladies and gentleman," her voice wavered, her Hungarian accent becoming more distinct. "We have breaking news. As of twenty three minutes ago, Mister Gilbert Beillschmidt has been found, dead, in his apartment."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya, while the inspirations for this story belong to their rightful owners.

                                   **Chapter 4**

Another newscaster took the place of Elizaveta, though, Arthur paid little, if any attention to whom it was.  His brain had obviously decided to inflict more suffering on him, by allowing every grisly possibility of how the recently found victim could have met his end, appear in his head in sickeningly realistic detail.  

_The sharp, metallic stench of blood clogged his nostrils; bile, burning, rising steadily up his throat at the revolting smell combined with the sight of Gilbert Beillshcmidt, beaten, nearly unrecognizable, save for glassy eyes, wide open, revealing ruby irises, stark against pure white background, as red as the shell that had once been the owner of those spheres, the exact color of the sea of blood that surrounded the gory island. Bullet holes and gashes covered the body, skull smashed in by either a mallet or hatchet; brains splattered everywhere, as did the crimson liquid, mixing together in a blend fit for the horror movies. Walls, once as white as the dead man's hair, were stained scarlet, as was the floor; the syrupy fluid flowed into the cracks between the floorboards, splitting into halves, fourths, eighths, when a fork in its path was given, only adding an illusion of a horrific, bloody spider web to the already gruesome sight._

_The scene morphed, distorting his sight for a mere moment or two, though what greeted the emerald orbs of Arthur Kirkland was none more pleasant than the last. A noose of great thickness entrapped the self-proclaimed Prussian's neck, jerking it at an inhumane angle. A chill ran up the blonde's spine, like icy fingers stroking his skin; the other's eyes, though left unseeing after his departure from this earth, were locked on his own, a final plea shining in the otherwise empty spheres. The rope travelled upwards, only to be swallowed by a black abyss; whatever the other end was knotted to for stability would remain unknown until the first lights of dawn seeped through the windows, bathing the place with soft grey luminescence, chasing away the creatures of shadow and nightthough, no matter, the brightness of the new day would not shed light on this mystery_

"Artie? Dude? Arthur? Hey, man, you okay?"  He was vaguely aware of a shadow or something  of the sort standing over him, blocking some of the severity of the intense lighting, though, not doing well enough to keep the Brit from being temporarily blinded, nor did it stop Arthur from feeling as if the room was spinning. It took a moment for the world to come back into focus, and, for him to realize there was no victim of a bloodbath to be seen, and that he was, indeed, still in a living room.

"Artie?"  Cerulean eyes, shining behind glasses, showing worry in their depths greeted his own jade tinted orbs.

"What..." Still dazed, it took a few seconds for it to register in Arthur's brain that the other's face was too close for his own likingand that Alfred was repeatedly poking his cheek. "What the _hell?_ Get awayDamn it, Alfred!" He shoved the American off of him, causing the younger to stumble back only in the slightest, a grin rapidly spreading, washing away the look of concern.  "Are you mad, shoving your face in mine? There are more proper ways in trying to get one's attention! You know very well I don't like having my personal space invaded, especially when I'm already off guard and I-"

A loud guffaw filled the room, the source of it coming from Arthur's companion. "Heh, yeah, you're fine. Thought I lost you there for a secyou looked all sick and green and stuff. What's the matter, one of your "fairies" say something nasty?"

 _"Wanker!_   The murderer could be standing outside at this very moment and you're willing to joke and laugh, as if everything is perfectly well? Who knows how you or I or someone else could meet our ends: shot, hung, blown up, stabbed or, or, or-" The Brit was in a frenzy now, more vivid images prying their way into his thoughts. Why couldn't Alfred take this seriously? He could be dead before the night was even over, all because he decided to brush this all off, as if it were nothing more than a joke.

"Calm down, bro. Everything's coolno need to freak out on me," he chuckled, eyes twinkling, enjoying the sight of his friend stressing himself out. It was quite amusing, actually, to see Arthur tugging at his hair, tufts coming out in his fists, pacing back and forth in an agitated manner as he rambled on about the various ways one could met their untimely doom. 

"No need toI take back my question. You are mad," Arthur snapped, sending one of his famous scathing glares the other's way. "You could be on your death bed tonight, for all you kn-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," the American made a shooing gesture, once more brushing off the thought that the murderer could be watching their every movement through the window. "Anyway, getting lateI'm going to bed. 'Night!" Before he could receive a response, off he went, heading to his room; leaving his guest standing there, with only the television for company.

"Git" he muttered under his breath, retiring to his own chambers. "He can go and get himself killed for all I caredoesn't want to take anything seriously, then he can face theconsequences" Each word was punctured by a small yawn; exhaustion overtook him, seeping into his weary bones, the bed appearing more and more comforting by the passage of time. As he laid his head down, he had already fallen into a deep slumber.

                                     XxX

"You are positive no trace remains?"  The voice of a towering officer with a thick Russian accent sounded over the wailing sirens. "There must be something therehe cannot escape murder without leaving one thing behind." As soon as the call went up that the "Moriarty Murderer" had struck again, every person in the Summit Falls crime department, on duty, had been sent to the scene, but with low morale. Each case was the same: hours straight, they would work, and still, nothing could be found to reveal the identity of the criminal mastermind.

"N-not one trace, sir. No finger prints, weaponnothing," a much shorter Estonian man responded, fiddling with his hat, his eyes any place but on the other's face; chewing nervously on his lip, tearing off more skin, allowing blood to dribble down his jaw. "He seems to have done it againwe're left without any clues, once more. If anythingwe seem to be going backward in our investigations."

"May be if you all stopped fooling around, we'd find some answers!" A third person growled, pushing through a gathering crowd of citizens, whose curiosity had dragged them from the safety of their homes.

"Ah, Officer Beillschmidt, this is a pleasant surpriseone would think that you would not want to be involved in the case of your brother's murder. You should begrieving, no?"  The Russian observed the newcomer coolly, but there was an underlying expression of suspicion, hidden in his features, barely visible in the sporadic lightshow of red and blue.

"What does it matter whether or not the dead man is my brother, Braginski? Another victim has been added to the death tolls, and unless we take action, more will join him. We must continue searching, if we are to catch this murderer." His sharp cobalt eyes rested on the smallest member of their trio. "Officer Von Bock, you will go back into the house and report back to me within the hour."

"B-but sir, as I was just telling Officer Bragniski, neither I nor my crew could find-" 

The German's eyes narrowed, generating a flinch from the Estonian. "Then look harder."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scott is finally introduced more in depth in the second part of this chapter, though I had originally planned to focus on a completely different character. However, I decided that character would be better off written more about later on, and was anxious to write more about Scott Kirkland. The Scott in this story, while it was mentioned that he smoked, is not based upon the Pixiv Scotland, but moreso on a bit of a mixture between my own strange headcanons (I suppose?) or whatnot and the information Himaruya gave about the canon Scotland.
> 
> Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya, while the inspirations for this story belong to their rightful owners.

  **Chapter 5**

With a start, he awoke, dazed and feeling nauseated; his vision blurred from sleep, it took Arthur a few seconds to realize that he was staring at a ceiling, and even longer to recognize that his location was that of the guest room in Alfred's house. Groaning, he turned to his side, to check the time on the digital clock, only to have the digits remind him that it had been broken for many a year, though, no matter, as it was still pitch black outside, the only light passing through the curtains being the soft glow of the moon, it made no difference to the Englishman.

Moving his body into a more comfortable sleeping position, he buried his face into one of the soft feather pillows that adorned his bed. _Hopefully, this time sleep will overtake me before those blasted nightmares can_

All night, realistic terrors had managed to weasel their way into the blonde's brain; imprinting on his skull, images of massacre, bodies, strewn haphazardly into piles of bloodied limbs, making it impossible for one to walk without treading on one of the fallen.

That was when he noticed how eerily quiet it was, how not one sound destroyed through the silence that was settling throughout the house, smothering him, stealing the all the air from his lungs. Whenever Arthur had happened to stay at the Jones's residence, the singular prominent thing he recalled from each of his visits, was the reverberating snores emanating from Alfred's room, soft echoes filling the otherwise quiet night; he had, over the course of the years, grown used to the sound, so much so, that the absence of it was unnerving. 

He sat upright, straining his ears, listening carefully for any sign that someone else was in the house with him; his hope growing more fervent by each passing second, Arthur, growing desperate, listened harder, nearly willing a sound to shatter the silence. Not a sound, not even in the slightest, came from elsewhere in the house, the Englishman found to his dismay, his hope a candle, flickering out once more. Anxiety took the place of the snuffed flame, forcefully washing him devoid of anything else but worry that his friend-and, quite possibly, himself-was in imminent danger. Throwing away the covers haphazardly, Arthur stumbled, darkness the only thing his green eyes could see, out of room; fingers brushing the wall in attempts to find a light switch, so he would, at the very least, be able to see what was waiting in the shadowy realms, prepared to greet him.

The blonde took another, tentative step forward, unable to find a switch, deciding to just carry on; his search to be continued sometime within the next few minutes, until he reached a room in which he was positive had a light source of one kind or another. As he entered the living room, however, a disturbance tickled his ear drum, that noise being the soft clicking sound of a door being pulled shut. 

Heavy footsteps followed, each one echoing loudly off the walks, jarring Arthur's already frayed nerves; after a few seconds the footfalls stopped, ending nearby the Brit's current "hiding" place. To whom they belonged, he did not know, but he did not dare breathe, did not dare move, as two things were for certain, two things, sharp in his muddled mind. One, there was someone else in the house with him, presumably, the "Moriarty Murderer", as they were dubbedtwo, that he had no possible way to escape without alerting the other of his presence. It seemed that, if he were to be discovered, he would face the inevitable: death.

                                       XxX

It was well past midnight, well past the time when nearly everyone else in his own town was asleep, save for the partiers, and the drunks, and, of course, himself, though, unlike the other two, the latter was not out and about the streets, disturbing the peace of the night with off key singing and drunken shouts; Scott was-and, to be honest, had been, for hours-sitting at his desk, emerald irises, similar to his brother's, locked on the blinking cursor of the word document he had up on his computer screen. The ginger haired male was an aspiring fantasy writer, wanting nothing more than to bring his characters and their world to life, to have them spring forth from the page, escaping from the prison that bound them until someone opened the book, freeing them of their chains. However, he'd hit a rough spot a few hours before, as he could not get his words to flow right; every time he'd try, things would become awkward and muddled, leaving yet another load of frustration upon his shoulders. 

Scott, would have, of course, gone to bed hours ago, letting his mind rest and allowing sleep to overcome his being-perhaps, bringing with it, ideas for his novel-if it weren't for the fact that his deadline was in three days. So, awake he stayed, growing more irritated by the hour, not only from the lack of progress, but from the ever growing pounding in his head, gained from the lengthy period staring at the bright screen, along with having a only a small portion of food that day. Minutes ticked by before he closed his laptop, rubbing his throbbing temples; he just could _not_ concentrate at the present moment and his headache was growing steadily worseit would be better if he went to bed now, clearing out his head so he would be better prepared to write, come morning.

He was pulling back the blankets, when a crash came from the top of his book shelf. Looking up, the red head discovered the perpetrator was none other than Effie, the small calico cat he had had in his care for about three years now. She watched him with hazel eyes, unblinking; a purr rumbling deep in her throat, seemingly pleased with whatever damage she had caused this time.

"An' what do you think you're doing, ye dobber?" he quirked one of his somewhat bushy eyebrows, he went to get the creature down.  "Causing trouble again?" She blinked, purr growing in volume earning a chuckle in response from her master. "Aye? Why don't you come down from there and let your old man sleep?" Scott lifted her down and scratched her behind the ears before sitting her down on the ground. 

Effie was the only thing to keep him company throughout the long days and nights, for which he was grateful, as most people nowadays found it humorous that his major goal in life was to be an author, and most of the dates he had been on had ended in disaster once he told them so, clearly believing that either he wasn't going to make it into the writing industry, or, if he did, he wasn't going to be as nearly as successful as the writers that had been around for a while were. After a while, he'd given up on searching for a relationship of some sort, instead, turning towards an animal for support and company; he'd gotten a cat simply because he had always wanted to have one during his youth, but unable to do so because Arthur was allergic to them, however, he no longer lived within the same residence as his brother, seeing as he had moved away a few days after his high school graduation, nearly six years ago.

With a small mew, she began pacing around the object she had knocked down, every few seconds shooting a glance up at him, almost as though she expected him to praise her for bringing whatever it was to his attention. "All right, all right, I'm-" It was wooden picture frame, the glass cracked from landing face down, a photograph from over a decade before nestled inside. Two boys, one with bright red hair, one with shoulder length blonde, arms thrown over the other's shoulders, smiled back at him, their jewel colored orbs sparkling with childhood mischief. 

The edges of the picture were torn, colors washed out, dulled from time, but never could it be any clearer in Scott's eyes; the two boys were him, and his best friend at the time, Francis Bonnefoy. They'd been as close as two friends could be, practically joined at the hip, until Scott's parents had gotten a divorce, leaving him stressed and, if anything, hurt, as no thought that something of the sort could happen to his parents's marriage had ever occurred to him. Soon after, he'd taken up smoking and done things he now regretted just to keep his mind off of his problems at home; all of that had only caused strife between him and Francis, and soon, the French teenager had told him he wanted nothing to do with a punk like him. Scott had been furious upon hearing that, giving his old friend a black eye, leading the other to believe he was even crazier. For the two years after that, the blonde had hung out with Gilbert and Antonio, forming the "exclusive" group that became known as The Bad Touch Trio, while the Scotsman kept to himself, ignoring the trio's taunting.

His fingers trailed about the frame, basking in the memories of yesteryears, back before his mother and father started fighting, before the divorce, back when Francis was practically his twin. A deep longing filled him, a lump forming in his throat, the photo he held in his hands becoming blurred by an onslaught of oncoming tears; he regretted losing his friendship with the blue eyed boy, regretted the days where he smoked in the school courtyard, vandalized school propertybut rued the day he'd beaten up his childhood companion, the final straw that cracked the thin ice of their friendship. 

Perhaps that was why he'd moved away from Summit Falls, not because he hated the place nor because Bonnefoy had ended that treasured friendship, but because he couldn't live there, day after day, and see the other's facecouldn't live with the guilt of knowing he was the one who caused that friendship to grow rocky, and then, eventually, to cease to exist. Perhaps that was also why he'd quit smoking when he finally left, why he'd somewhat given up on associating with humans, because it hurt too much, once he realized he'd most likely never have as good as a friendship with anyone else, ever again.

_I'm sorry Francis._

Maybe in the morning, he'd call up the other, for old time's sake, and maybe, there would be the slightest chance to start their friendship up, anew.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya, while the inspirations for this story belong to their rightful owners.

**Chapter 6**

"Arthur? What are you doing up?" Arthur stumbled back upon hearing Alfred's voice, his feet flying out from under him, sending him to the floor; as his head smashed against the ground, he earned himself the beginnings of a throbbing headache.

"Alfred? What-oh damn it all to hell," gritting his teeth in attempts to force himself to forget of the ache, the Englishman sat up, rubbing where it was at the greatest intensity, "What in God's name possessed you to do that?" 

"Do what?" Alfred asked, clearly trying not to laugh; the blonde shoved his hands into his jean pockets (Arthur had noted with some suspicion that his friend hadn't changed into his pajamas, despite the time of night that it was) and rocked back and forth, from the heels to the toes of his worn, dirty sneakers. "You did that all yourself, Artie." This time, a chuckle managed to escape from his lips before he could suppress it.

"I wouldn't have ityou didn't-and stop calling me that! _Where_ were you, anyway?" Arthur huffed as he stood up, brushing at the back of his flannel pants to remove any dust that might have gathered there from his time sprawled on the floor.  

"Aw, you were worried about me." The American teased, his blue orbs twinkling. "So you do care about your ole buddy after all!  And here I thought you were a heartless old man. " 

Alfred's words sent the older blonde into a fit, "Worried, about _you?_ Ha, I was simply worried that the murderer had gotten inside because of your foolishness and was about to cut my throat in my sleep. Old _old_ man! I'm only a year or so older than you, you arse! And you still never answered my question: where were you? Whatwhat possessed you to go out and about at this ungodly hour when a killer is on the loose? You're even more idiotic than I thought was humanly possible!"

"I was hoping I could catch 'im and take him down-a hero's gotta keep his town safe, am I right?" At this, Alfred pulled his hands free from the pockets and flexed his muscles. "Oh yeah, look at these babies-I don't need no weapons, s'long as I have these!"

Arthur fuming, stormed off, muttering under his breath about why he had even taken up Alfred's offer to stay there in the first place. Tomorrow he was going to get a room at one of the local hotels; he didn't want to deal with Alfred's nonsense at a time like this. Behind him, the American's loud, booming laughter bounced off of the kitchen walls.

                                     XxX

The first lights of the dawn were filtering through the curtains when Eduard shuffled into his flat, and, he was rather amazed that he hadn't fallen asleep on the drive home-Beillshmidt had kept every man on the scene on their toes for the  last few hours. It wasn't until Bragniski suggested the German scour the place himself since neither Eduard nor anyone else could find any clue that the others were allowed to leave to crime scene. 

From the living room came snoring and, very faintly, he could detect the sounds of a show on the television. No doubt his flat mate, Ravis had tried to stay up, waiting for him to return; the Latvian college freshmen had done so ever since he moved in with Eduard and Torisbut now, Toris was gone, and only Eduard and Ravis remained. 

A bittersweet smile formed on the young policeman's lips as he watched the rise and fall of the small figure curled up on the couch. The Estonian viewed the younger Baltic as a younger brother, and treated him as such.

 

Eduard gently slid the remote control from the Latvian's grasp, turned off the television, and placed the remote on the side table, next to what appeared to be a bottle of vodka, with little over half of the clear liquid left; the sight didn't surprise him, as Ravis had been a heavy drinker for quite a well now (though Eduard had often tried to lock the liquor cabinet, and more often than that, had he tried to wean his flat mate off of alcohol, as with each time the dirty blonde drank, the elder of the two worried himself sick that one day Ravis's liver would fail from all of his alcohol consumption.) Unfortunately, though, Eduard couldn't keep an eye on him all of the time-what with his working hours and sleeping schedule conflicting with the hours Ravis was at home. 

Perhaps he could ask for a night off when they finally captured the killer-it wasn't right that the boy was alone during all hours of the night, and that if he wanted to talk to his friend for a few minutes, he had to stay up waiting for him to return.

_But who knows how long finding the murderer will take?_

A sigh escaped from him, as the bespectacled man covered Ravis with the blanket that they had draped over the back of the couch before stumbling off to his room, his eyes heavy with sleep; he'd need to sleep for at least a few hours-no doubt Braginski or Bellishmidt would keep him up all night again, searching for clues that would never exist.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.

**Chapter 7**

_Years prior..._

Arthur closed his eyes, inhaling deeply what he could of the moist forest air; moss, mingling with the barest scent of wildflowers, among others...smells that were as familiar to him as his mother's cooking, if not more. No one was supposed to go into the woods in the southern part of Summit Falls, but, seeing as how no one dared to go in them, it made the perfect escape for the fifteen year old Brit. There were rumors about the place as well, that spirits roamed through the shadows, searching for anyone brave-or foolish-enough to venture into the forest alone, and, that they would carry the person off to a hellish dimension, never to be heard from again.

 _Utter foolishness..._ the boy trailed his fingers across the rough bark of the surrounding trees as he picked his path through the tangle of brush and overhanging limbs. _Not once has anything ever happened to me, and I've been back here more times than I can count on one hand._ Arthur snorted, amused by the simple fact that no one but he dared to go into the forest; even Alfred seemed wary of "The Woods", when in most cases involving risks or fatal injury of any kind, the American would rush in, headfirst, with little or no caution whatsoever.

"Ghosts, Arthur," the blonde muttered to himself. "The twat's terrified of ghosts." While Arthur certainly believed in the paranomal-the only except being extraterrestrials-he couldn't quite understand how people could be terrified of spirits of the dead when it was obvious that they couldn't harm the living. "Even so, everyone's fears are ridiculously pointless; in all of my times here, I haven't so much as came across a single ghost, only fae. A normal wood, that's all this place is..." As if to prove his point, birds chirped back and forth to one another from their nests, and several squirrels chattered amongst themselves as they leapt from branch to branch or scoured the ground for traces of nuts.

He continued his hike, occasionally letting a whistle tumble from his lips. If everyone else believed that the place was haunted, so be it; at least that meant that whenever he happened to steal into the woods, he'd be free from their idiocies. _Heaven knows I need some time alone, without those blasted fools bothering me. It wouldn't come as a surprise if I went insane, if I didn't at least have this place for my own._

Without warning, Arthur's feet flew out from under him, sending him sprawling on the ground. "Bloody-" spitting out the dirt that had found its way into his mouth when he fell, the blonde sat up, eyes skimming the ground, as he searched for the perpetrator. It wasn't long before he'd found the mystery object, however, it wasn't a rock nor a tree root that had tripped him, but something much more out of place in the wilderness. "A book? Now, what on Earth is a book doing out here?"

At closer expection, the leather tome proved to be a very ancient one, if the yellowing, amost crumbling pages proved anything. Arthur swore loudly, cursing the fool who'd dare toss out so precious a volume.

With careful fingers, the Brit opened, curiousity of what lay between the covers gnawing at his insides; when he caught a glimpse of the writing, his breath catching in his throat as he tried to exhale. The words were written in a different tongue from the one he spoke, perhaps an ancient language that was now no longer used, save only a few people amongst the vast majority whom did not. Arthur supposed it was Latin, but he couldn't be quite sure. However, the paternal grandfather of the Vargas brothers, Feliciano and Lovino, (known to nearly everyone in Summit Falls by "Grandpa Vargas", though, the story of how the nickname came to be was unknown to the teenager-nor did he truly care about its beginnings) certainly would, seeing as how he was the "town expert" on anything about Roman history, Latin, and anything relating to those two subjects. Though, how such a book managed to find its way to Summit Falls, he'd never know.

However, Arthur knew that if he were to go to someone, and ask about the book, it would be taken from him, and more likely than not, placed in a museum, never to fall into his hands again. Before he could lose his nerve, the fifteen year old hid the book under his coat and began for home, giddy with excitement over his find.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: 
> 
> Spanish: amigo - friend
> 
> ¿Quién...? - Who...?
> 
> Está bien. - It's good. 
> 
> Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.

**Chapter 8**  
 _Present time..._  
"Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey!" a very loud, very obnoxious, and _much too_ cheerful for this hour of the morning voice trilled into Arthur's ear. "C'mon, wake up and smell the coffee! Oh, yeah, you don't like coffee...oh well. Wait, do you like sweet tea?"

"Alfred," Arthur groaned, covering his ears with his hands. First, the memory of finding the book plagued his mind (when he had finally gotten back to sleep), and now this. Things most certainly weren't on his side these days. "Stop yelling in my ear, I'm trying to sleep. Really, can't you just leave me be? I didn't fall back asleep until nearly five because of that scare you gave me. Besides, it's rude to wake up a guest...and for your information, no, I do not like "sweet tea." It's absolutely horrid."

"You just have bad taste-sweet tea is awesome dude! Why would McDonald's and other burger joints sell it if it wasn't?!" the younger complained. "It's the best drink out there, next to soda."

"Think of what you just said, and get back to me later. Now, would you mind leaving me be?" If Alfred said one more word...

"If you won't wake up, I'm just gonna have to wake you up! Preparing for launch in three...two...o-"

"Fucking hell!" the Brit jumped back, slamming his head against the headboard. "What the hell's the matter with you Alfred?! Jesus..." Not only was he still sore from ending up sprawled on the floor last night, but now he had to deal with the beginnings of (yet another) headache. All because of his supposed best friend. Yes, he would indeed check in at a hotel befor the night was up; he didn't think he could stand one more night of this.

"Knew that would wake you up!" Alfred chirped, grinning from ear to ear. 

"Hasn't anyone ever told you that threatening to jump on people is rude?" Arthur muttered crossly, rubbing at the newest tender spot. 

"Until now? Nope! Now, you getting up or do I have to get a bucket of ice water? It's already past ten; normally you're up way before then."

"I'm up, I'm up. Don't get your knickers in a twist...and I _would_ have been today, if it weren't for you disappearing last night. What the hell were you doing out anyway?" He sent a suspcious look the other's way. "Trying to find the killer? Or, did you break into McDonald's or Burger King or _where ever_ , protesting because you spend too much money when buying five hamburgers to shove down your throat?"

The bespectaled young man cocked his head curiously, his lips pursed, "don't you remember? I told you what I was doing."

"No, you didn't. You just laughed when I scolded you." 

"Yes I _did,_ Alfred's eyes narrowed into slits. "I told you. And you shouldn't be speaking-you heard me come in and walked straight to the noise. How did you know I wasn't the killer, huh? How did you know you wouldn't turn into mince meat in a couple o' seconds, _huh?"_

"I...I didn't...?" the eldest gulped; Alfred was beginning to unnerve him again.

"That's right, you _didn't!_ And you know how suckish it would've been to come home and see my best bud lying in a puddle of his own blood?"

"I...h-how suckish?" Arthur resisted the urge to tremble, to fumble around for some sort of weapon to protect himself with, as he was sure the other was going to kill him.

"Pretty suckish, man." The American's expression returned to one more common to his features, that of a joking grin. "Now, get dressed and we can grab a bite to eat before we go out."

"Why...why do we need to go out?" The last thing he wanted to do was travel around this ghost town with a psychopath on the loose.

"I need to run some errands, and 'cause you kinda got freaked out by being left alone last night, you're coming with me."

Arthur opened his mouth to protest, to tell him outright that he was fine, that he didn't _need_ someone to look after him, but soon realized that this would be the perfect way for _him_ to keep an eye on Alfred. Without saying a word, he snapped it shut again.

_Maybe now I can find out why he's acting so bloody strange..._

**XxX**

If he were being totally honest with himself, Antonio didn't even know why he was going out on the streets; he didn't need to stop by the grocery store (which, nowadays, would be one of the only reasons residents of Summit Falls would be on the streets), nor was he doing anything else of importance. 

The Spaniard was simply going for a walk, confused as to why he was doing such especially after one of his best friends had been killed, and only muttering to himself that he was antsy and that he needed some fresh air after being trapped indoors so long occupied his mind from stray thoughts about the emptiness of the streets and the intense paranoia that the killer was watching his every move.

_Everything is fine, amigo...there is nothi-_

"¿Quién...?" the brunette froze mid-step at the sound of someone trailing him, their shoes scuffing against the rough pavement behind him. _Whatever you do, don't turn around._

He did, ignoring his own warning, and found, much to his surprise, that no one had been following him; as far as his eyes could see, there was not a single other human in sight. "Ha, see? Everything is fine, nothing to worry about. Está bie-"

A warm breath tickled his ear.


End file.
